


End of Dream

by BirdofHermies



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, fate - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character Death In Dream, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29226870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdofHermies/pseuds/BirdofHermies
Summary: As the days pass on and come to an end, we hope to leave no regrets.
Relationships: Iskandar | Master
Kudos: 1





	End of Dream

A little more than eight months ago, the master that she came to know and respect had perished. Stricken with disease which had worsened due to a night of heavy drinking, such a fragile life could not be saved. Neither the medicine that the doctors provided nor the gods could have possibly helped the poor man...nor could the gods bring solace to those that he had left behind. 

  
To one man in particular, it has become the end of the world.

  
Which is why, perhaps, he was now in the same position as the deceased. In his death bed, he was surrounded by a multitude of people. The room was so crowded that dropping a needle was close to impossible. Apart from that, a line had started outside his room which filled from corridor to corridor. There in bed lay the Great King who united one nation after another. He was an adamant and passionate man, often viewed as both outstanding and reckless. He moved only in accordance with his dream of glory and renown—all for those who served him under a banner known as conquest.

  
The sound of mournful cries filled his chambers without fail. Even his wife who sat by his bedside, was wept silently. Even if none of them wanted to shed tears, they couldn't help it. How could they when their king was smiling at them as they one by one came close? Despite the pain that he seemed to be in, he still showed his men that there was nothing to worry about...that he was fine-- but they knew better. He was growing pale, and his eyes had a glossy sheen that made them believe that he wouldn't last any longer. He could not speak and the only thing that he could do was raise his hand to hold those of his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms. 

  
He had arranged for this knowing that he would not lose breath so long as there was someone who wanted to see him. Inevitable was the time, and he did not contest it.

Despite having been called the son of a god, the king knew all too well that he was but a man. He bled not Ichor, but blood. So it was natural that he would grow sick or become susceptible to poison which afflicted him with this kind of mortal suffering. 

  
It took a long time before he was finally alone. His beautiful wife, Roxanne, left his side on his orders since he could not bear to see the sight of her suffering. They would have a son, he remembered her say, in earnest and excitement... _ah_ , how he wished to see him grow into a fine young man. Would his generals, he wondered, make a good successor for the kingdom that he had established? Literal Blood, sweat and tears, his kingdom was built on the life of his subjects. How he wished that his words would remain true too...that those who joined him would become the envy of all. He could envision it now, a flourishing land where peoples of all nations come together in unity...for a peace that would last till the ends of time. How wonderful it would be, if his men could all live such prosperous lives. People would sing praises of glory in their name. They would be peerless heroes whose tales would survive the test of even eternity. Who would be strong enough to see his dream through? 

  
He remembered the time when he fought battle after battle. From the Hellicarnasus to Issus, to the Granicus and even up to Gaugamela...together, everyone was strong. His beloved Hetairoi was indeed the strongest...the only ones worthy to inherit not only his land but his aspirations. 

  
"Ok--e--s..."

  
Half opened lids would stare into nothingness as an image formed in his mind. It was so vivid that he could hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore. He could smell the scent of salt that was unique to the ocean breeze...he could see his dream unfold before his eyes, yet he knew that his feet would not reach those shores. The thought made him want to break down in tears not because his dream was at its end, but because he led his men aimlessly despite knowing that Okeanos may in fact, not exist. They were all so loyal to him, weren't they? Even if they had disagreed time and time again, they all came to terms and followed through because they believed that he could turn the impossible possible. 

  
While it may have been late, if he could be given another chance, he wanted to take his men home-- and thereafter all of them can simply enjoy the fruits of their labor while being in the embrace of their families. At the very end, he may admit that even he was blinded by his peerless ambition but he held no regrets over it.

  
“Even in death, you still hope to see Okeanos?”

  
Finally, the short-lived silence had been shattered. Though he had no more strength in his body to move even a single muscle of his head, his eyes did the job of surveying his chambers for him. And there, against the wall was the lone figure who had decided to join him in this time of dire. 

  
_The ageless witch..._

  
Despite the moniker, there was a certain fondness for her in his mind. And true to her name, she looked no older than the very first moment when they had met. At that time, he was simply a prince of 16 with parents that were all too worried for his future marital affairs. Having set up a feast for "his" **indulgence** \- as his father and mother liked to call it - peoples from all of their conquered lands came in attendance...women most especially. Even slaves were dressed in fancy clothes and treated as guests so that they too may join the festivities. It was there that he laid eyes on her. 

  
Quite the bold little thing was the witch and as fate would have it, a Persian slave. Macedonians and Greeks alike had no amour for them due to the part they played in their history, but the King cared none for it. There, amongst the guests, the way they had met was rather unconventional. Once she had stepped into the halls where fun was to be had, it didn't take long for discord to be sowed. The cheeky slave fought like a man. Even if the time for the brawl was misplaced, he couldn't contest how magnificently entertaining the ordeal had been. In that whole room, she had captured his eyes. Though perhaps a little more than usual since he had to drag her out in order to quell the malcontents.

  
Instead of answering with a nod, the addressed merely closed his eyes and took a deep breath, one that he slowly exhaled through his nostrils. _I suppose_ _even she cannot work her magic here..._ A fleeting thought indeed. To him, she was like a charm. A witch that appeared during the war time or when everything was simply in chaos. The little gestures and words that the child had provided may not seem much to others, but to him it was a push that helped him move forward. Maybe the witch was god-sent; an answer when he prayed...

  
"He--pha--"

  
"My master would be sad if he could see this..." Before the staggering king could finish his words, the witch had intervened. He opted to keep his lids opened even if just half way. Closing his eyes more than he wanted felt like the end. He could barely speak, and moving his mouth seemed like a chore. If he didn't keep himself awake, it felt as if Hades would appear and take him by the hand, leading him into the afterlife. Apart from that reason, he wanted to see the girl's face. Strange and humorous purposes served, she not only reminded him of Hephaestion, but also Bucephalas, both of whom he had already lost prior.

  
Unlike the rest who had visited and cried for him, this child's eyes were as sharp as ever. Seriously, the girl had no intentions of wearing out her stubbornness. As much as he could, he mustered the strength to lift up his hands so that he could reach for her. Even seeing was becoming a task. With pain coursing through his veins he blindly moved his arms until his fingers partially grazed the strands of the witch’s hair. From the looks of it, she had no intentions of being within his grasp either, something that made him laugh internally. Until the very end, she was unwilling to submit.

  
For now, he had to settle for those delicate strands of wavy locks. Sifting his fingers through what he could gave forth some kind of relief. Now that he thought about it--one that brought a weak smile to his face--the witch never came to him of her own. It was always through the order of her master, Hephaestion. 

  
_Hephaestion always seemed to be so fond of her company…_ He mused, recalling the time when he had brought the child in. Nothing more than a bloody mess, Hephaestion nursed her back to health and disguised her as a young boy in an attempt to protect her from any unwanted attention. Instead of being reduced to one of the Persian slaves, his best friend had taken her under his wing. "Z--bin..."

  
"..." As ever, she kept silent. If he had the strength to still keep on uttering needless things, then she wanted to believe that he was fine. But perhaps, even that little gleam of hope was dying out. There was still a part of her that couldn't understand why her heart was roused by this scene. The one who was beaming with life and who was always recklessly rushing forth, the one who normally was brighter than the sun was reduced to this—A man who could not even talk and was having a hard time to even stagger. The witch wanted to move closer when he outstretched his arms, but her body refused. For the sake of the king who could not even shed tears in the face of death, she too had to be strong.

  
"Ptolemy and the others will be fine." She muttered, reaching for the hand that was messing with her hair only to set it down; she herself sat by his bedside. This was the point where she didn't want to look at him. Even if his face was at the peak of contorting from agony, he still managed to keep that stupid looking grin on his face...and for her, it was inexplicably painful to gaze at. How could someone smile at a time like this…when he was being robbed of his life and dreams? _He who is favored by the gods...so even people like him could have luck run out._ "That's why, if your only reason for holding on is because you're worried about them...stop it. They're tough; they can handle themselves well enough."

  
There was gruffness in the way she spoke as her gaze remained averted from the ill-fated king. A swirl of emotion consisting of annoyance showed yet the cause remained a mystery.

  
When she had seen the soldiers from before mourn for their beloved ruler, Zubin swore to herself that she wouldn't become like them. She would not be moved to tears nor would she be drowned in thoughts of sadness and grief. After all, even if this man was a king, he was indeed only that-- a man; a person who was of no concern to her, nor of any blood relation. When she could not spare tears for her master, Hephaestion himself...why would she do something so trivial like that for the bed-ridden conqueror?

  
"And if it's your wife that you're worried about, Lady Roxanne is a bright woman. Strong, just like you. Even if she's crying now, I'm sure that she will continue what you've--" Her words, for now, had ceased and utterly she was moved to silence. The fumbling hand of the king, she failed to notice, had reached for hers. Now the king already knew that the people he'd leave behind were of excellent mettle. He knew each and every one of them and shared in the toils that the war had brought on. And so with that, his heart was at ease. But it was this girl that worried him slightly; the girl who always hid the truth behind a mask of ice. Never wavering, never shedding a tear, almost never laughed...however she too was sometimes nimble and easily distraught...this was how he viewed Zubin. In the end, even if she guised himself a boy, she was still a child amidst a battlefield that was not even her own. 

  
As his shaking digits firmly held the other, he couldn't help but remember the time when he bore witness to the wounds and scars that adorned her small frame. From some time ago, he remembered witnessing a vision—a dream about a jovial child who, due to the cruelty of her own maker, fell further and further into darkness. 

  
In his dream, he was greeted by a future that was not all too different from his present, at least in terms of feeling. A chamber in which a person was tortured, he saw it, and in that dream it was not something that housed the enemy. Instead, it was the witch. Her screams and cries were enough to haunt any who'd hear it. Pleas to be released rang in howls only to be rewarded with silence and neglect. He had witnessed in a split second how those cries had died down, the birth of a husk that had a human's form. Enduring every agonizing form of punishment in order to enhance what seemed to be her abilities. He then realized that the girl's strength...the one that he came to acknowledge as a beautiful thing, was built upon weakness that had been ignored for a long time. Children weren't meant to live like that, more so a little girl. A breath of life that had been ended before it could have begun to bud and bloom; somehow the thought of dying without being able to save such a fragile existence left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You--" He began to mutter, hardly getting the witch’s attention. "--sav--cou--dnt--" Words thwarted by a sharp coughing, it was only then that Zubin turned to look at him.

Forcing himself to gesture for her not to worry, the king cleared his throat before taking in a deep breath. Once he had expelled it, his lips moved producing an inaudible whisper that had finally earned a reaction from the often stoic witch. 

  
\---

  
Cold sweat descended the girl's face as she sat up, riled, from her night's sleep. She took in breaths by the second, feeling as if she had been robbed of the very air that she had been blessed with. The skies were still dark, but the stars had scurried away. There was nothing left apart from the red clouds that hung over while hiding whatever was left of that night's moonshine. Today was probably the first time that she had slept soundly while toughing it out somewhere in the wild. Unlike the mornings, heat was compromised making the arid winds non-existent. Instead, everything was blanketed with cold winds and a subtle passing breeze. The whistling it produced was a nice enough melody to ease away the deafening silence which accompanied the darkness.

  
Covered by only her ashened cloak, the embers of Naz's fire had long been extinguished. Unfortunately for her, the chill left as she awakened was something that even the strongest of flames couldnt extinguish. Something was missing from her memory. Like most of her dreams, nothing remained once morning came. The moment she woke up, there would be a faint trace of feeling left, but nothing more. There are times when she would vaguely remember a face or a voice, but there was nothing ever too concrete. This time though it felt as if something had been stolen from her. 

  
On most occasions the girl could care less. Nothing had been so important that waking up without remembering shook her. It was likely that she held no attachments or fondness for anything or anyone once she was living in the world created by her slumbering mind. 

  
So why? 

  
The moment when she felt the sides of her face wet was the time when she uncurled her fingers from her cloak. Digits automatically traced along her cheeks and followed the stream of water that coursed from her eyes. She had been crying there in her sleep silently. No words were uttered, not a single sound was made while wiping away at whatever tears were produced. It was not stopping. Her chest was beginning to hurt and tighten, and her eyes were becoming sore from all the wiping. In the end, her own silence was cracked by a the sound of her own voice. 

  
A tone she had long ceased making.

  
Without knowing why, Naz poured out all of the anguish that had been accumulated within that tiny body of hers. Here, there were no human eyes who witnessed such a pathetic scene. It was a secret that she shared with the stillness of the night. The girl couldn't remember a thing and while this should have been normal, it almost felt like forgetting was a sin. Or rather...there was just one thing that was left in her memory...and yet even those words were becoming just that-- a fading voice from a distant dream. 

_"Everything will be alright."_ Were the solitary words that the passing gale whispered to her.


End file.
